Saturday, February 16, 2013

It was a calm, clear night. The moon was full. The town was quiet. A candle burned serenely in a large bay window, giving off a steady glow she could be proud of. Her color was bright and her sides smooth as she sat in her sparkling lead crystal candlestick holder.

Now, candles are internally oriented most of the time. Not necessarily because they want to be, but because they must be. They have to concentrate on staying lit and shining brightly, which takes a lot more work and concentration than one might think. As such, the candle didn’t notice the destruction that had ripped through her home that evening.

She didn’t notice the lock hanging flimsily from the front door, the overturned armchair, or the open bottle of red wine emptying itself onto the white carpet. She didn’t notice the skipping record that should have been playing soft jazz or its broken brothers lying on the floor nearby. She didn’t notice the blood splatters, the broken bathroom door, the knife lying in a corner, or the overflowing tub. She didn’t notice the shadows under the water or the limp pale hand hanging over the side. Nor did she notice any of the loud sounds that had surely occurred earlier; the shouts or crashes.

She didn’t notice any of these things because they were not important to her. She just kept on burning brightly in her window like she was supposed to.
And because she didn’t notice, she was content.

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Friday, February 15, 2013

I watch the snow fall as I walk and muse how appropriate the season is. As I get inside, I go to my calendar, like every other day, and draw a line through the square that represents today, through the picture of a party hat with my name on it. I check my phone, more out of habit now than anything else. No missed calls. I go to the kitchen -the fridge is empty except for a gallon of milk and some sweet tea. The freezer is full of TV dinners. I sigh as I make one. Just another day.

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About Me

Richard L. Foland Jr. has lived a mostly nomadic life in western Pennsylvania, southeastern Ohio and (briefly) western New York. As his life has become increasingly more settled his faith in people, especially politicians, has become far more unsettled. He hates divorces, having been through one, and loathes large gatherings. The latter probably explains why he would prefer to sit alone at a keyboard rather than go to a party. It probably also explains why people think he might be antisocial although he would rather they called him Uncle Social.